


monroe

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Revenge Era, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: Mikey recognizes the look on his face from hot sticky days spent up in the attic, exhausted, watching Gerard hype himself up to be a Lead Singer, to be a Frontman, to be the main attraction for the first time since fourth grade.
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	monroe

**Author's Note:**

> quick little thingamabob idk what im doing i just think its fun how gws stage presence vs personality is pretty much [this](https://www.sunnyskyz.com/blog/2610/No-One-Recognized-Marilyn-Monroe-In-NYC-Then-She-Says-Want-To-See-Me-Become-Her-)

They’re fooling around, backstage, post-show, and Mikey’s high on something that he can't remember taking and high on something else, less literal— the roar of the crowd, he thinks, blurrily— and Gerard is already all high-pitched girl-whiny like he gets whenever he’s really fucking worked up and backward. It’s nice. It’s tradition, sequestered in the spare green room, buried in costumes and knocking over catering trays, seeing how fast they can get off before someone comes looking. 

Mikey doesn’t even really realize it when he says it the first time, into Gerard's open, spit-hot mouth, not until he pulls back and gives him a look like he’s grown a second head.

"What?"

"What?" Mikey echoes, feeling dumb and worn-out and cottony, like the only thing he’s good for is playing or jerking Gerard off (which is a pretty different skillset, so he’s probably good to go if he can hit those two extremes on the spectrum). 

"You said 'turn him on', '' Gerard says, and how he can go from 100 to 0 so fast Mikey will never know. 

"Yeah, okay, so?” He tries to go back in for Gerard's neck and pinch that thin thin skin between his teeth but he pushes him off, brow furrowed. 

"Fuck's that even mean?"

Mikey's head is too full right now. "I meant, like," he starts, and frowns, tries to figure it out himself. "Can you— y'know, turn into him. I guess."

"Mikey. Dude."

"I don't know how to say it," he says, and waves his hand up and down Gerard's show-sweaty form, hair to dress shoes, "like, turn into Gerard Way from My Chemical Romance." 

He looks a little hurt, and a lot confused. "I _am_ —"

"You know what I mean." He's seen him do it more times than he can count; that measured short-step walk of his getting closer and closer to a stalk as he closes the distance between him and the stage; the curl or straightening of his back (depending on how feverish and wild-eyed wino crazy he was gonna get, or if he was just going to start grandstanding and monologuing about sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll); the inevitable, instinctual glide of his hands through his hair as he stops walking and starts prowling, becomes something unpredictable, something that lives up to promises.

"Like you’re out there." 

Gerard doesn’t say anything and Mikey winces on the inside. He starts to get up and accidentally knocks a pitcher to the floor and it shatters, flecks his legs with flat beer, sends glass skittering into the corners. They both ignore it.

"Just forget it, man. I'm like, six kinds of fucked up, I don't know what I'm talking about," he says, but Gerard gets in closer, bumps him back up against the table. Glass crunches under his bootheel.

He starts smiling, and he sticks his jaw out, and Mikey recognizes the look on his face so well from hot sticky days spent up in the attic, exhausted, watching Gerard hype himself up to be a Lead Singer, to be a Frontman, to be the main attraction for the first time since fourth grade. It's so dorky and so bittersweet his heart feels like a leaf stuck in the spokes of a bike wheel; not beating but spinning, smacking the inside of his ribs, gently tap-tap-tapping, pumping him woozy with adrenaline. 

He wonders if Gerard always looked that way from the front, that echo of the Good Old Days playing across him real brief on the long walk down a short backstage, or if Mikey’s just thrown off his rhythm. Maybe he only looks like a kid about to kick open the doors to a high-school auditorium because he’s doing it for him alone instead of the feverish masses. 

"I think I get it," Gerard says, and his pulse picks up because it's there, just a little bit, coloring the ends of his words bright red. "Mikey Way, I think you just might be six kinds of fucked up," and Mikey kind of feels like he just did a line because he's all _there_ at once, he's looking at a totally different person— not his sweet dorky aged-out basement dweller brother who was about to whimper his way through a quick handjob, but a full-grown rockstar— and he brings his teeth down on Mikey’s earlobe, too hard to be a love bite.

" _Ah_ ," he gasps, shocking himself but not Gerard, apparently; he bucks his hips into Mikey’s with the type of stage-stunt violence that gets wrists sprained and speakers broke and his belt buckle hits him in the dick so, y’know, that sucks. Mikey yanks him in and hooks one leg around his waist anyway, feeling ridiculous, feeling like a fanboy or some shit because he’s never been anything except Mikey Way, period on the end, full stop, but when this Gerard says his full name like that— with the space in the middle where _Fucking_ could go— he's everything. He's everything and Gerard’s kissing his neck, he's sticking his tongue down his throat, he's ripping open both of their stupid skintight jeans and rutting against his dick and they both go down, collapsing onto the table, hoping it won't break under their weight.

Gerard says "Didn't know you were into this," and he fucking growls it, like, it's hot, but it's so put-upon Mikey kinda wants to laugh as he's moaning. 

"This is so fucking stupid," he says, panting through it, and Gerard bites his jawline because apparently, he's a biter when he doesn't have to worry about a billion TV cameras and twice that amount of enraptured fans (not that he ever worried much, anyway). 

" _You're_ fucking stupid," he mocks, but he's laughing a little too, Mikey can see it in the corners of his eyes. He grabs Mikey’s wrist— knocking him cockeyed onto the table because, ow, he was holding himself up with that— and drags it up to his face and shoves it to his mouth, saying "Spit," even as he already is.


End file.
